Chapter Text
Privet Drive slept the way it always did: perfectly. Nothing out of place, no voices raised, no sign that anything strange could possibly live behind one of the neat white doors.
Except, of course, under the stairs.
Harry woke before dawn, jolting upright from a dream he couldn’t remember. His scar tingled, faint and awkward like an itch under the skin. The small cupboard was still dark, his blanket twisted around his legs. Old toy soldiers neastled safely out of sight and broken Christmas decorations leaned in the shadows, their sharp edges waiting to catch on skin.
There was no sound upstairs yet. He had time.
Harry pulled on Dudley’s old t-shirt — so oversized it hung off one shoulder like drooping robes — and opened the cupboard door quietly. The hall was still. He moved like habit: silent, invisible, necessary.
He started breakfast without being asked. Bacon today — Dudley always demanded bacon when it was a “special day,” and today apparently was one. Harry scrambled eggs, buttered toast, worked the stove with practiced care.
By the time Uncle Vernon lumbered down the stairs, the kitchen smelled comforting. Harry didn’t look up. It was safer that way.
“Well,” Vernon muttered, looking him over with disapproval, “at least you can cook without burning anything for once.”
Harry didn’t reply. He’d learned silence won arguments better than words ever did.
Dudley thumped downstairs next, already complaining that his eggs weren’t fluffy enough, and Aunt Petunia swooped in behind him, fussing over her son like he was royalty.
Nothing unusual. Nothing kind.
Harry served plates. Nobody thanked him.
Harry waited until the last plate was served before quietly slipping a single slice of toast to his pocket — he wasn’t sure when he’d be allowed to eat properly. Before he could scurry off, Aunt Petunia’s voice sliced through the kitchen air.
“Garden. Now. The weeds are an embarrassment to the neighbors. I want that yard spotless.”
Harry swallowed his sigh. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”
The back door creaked as he stepped into the morning chill. Dew clung to the grass like silver threads, sparkling in the sun. For a moment, the yard felt like a tiny meadow — wildflowers, patches of clover, a robin tugging at a worm.
Then he saw the tools Petunia had set out.
Gloves with holes. A rusty trowel. No true quality to be seen.
He knelt anyway.
The work was slow, tedious. Weeds had roots that dug deep—sometimes deeper than his patience—but he tugged and pulled, forming neat piles the way Petunia liked them.
A rustle nearby made him pause.
Cheep. Cheep!
A tiny sound, frantic and panicked. He scanned the ground nearby and spotted a small, trembling bundle of feathers on the grass below a tree. Barely bigger than his thumb, its wings flailed weakly.
“Oh,” Harry breathed, carefully crawling over. “You’re just a baby.”
He glanced toward the house. The curtains twitched — Petunia was watching — but not close enough to see what he did next.
Gently, Harry scooped the bird into his palms. Its heartbeat fluttered like frightened wings against his skin.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He searched the branches above until he spotted a nest wedged between two limbs — messy, but secure. Stretching on tiptoe, fingers barely brushing the edge, he eased the chick back in beside its siblings.
The baby cheeped softer now — calmer.
The mother bird swooped down moments later, chirping anxiously at her child. Harry stepped back, smiling faintly.
Warmth blossomed in his chest — small but fierce.
Invisible in the Dursleys’ home, but needed by something, for once.
He finished his chores more carefully, leaving wildflowers in neat semicircles rather than ripping everything bare. Bees hummed. The robin finished her worm nearby, eyeing him curiously.
By the time Harry returned to the house, dirt smudged his face and his knees ached, but something inside him felt steadier.
Petunia barely glanced his way. “Don’t track mud in. And you missed the corner by the fence.”
Harry bit his tongue. “Sorry.”
___
The next morning started the same, and yet the smallest thing interrupted the routeen.
He heard the flap of envelopes hitting tile from the kitchen.
“Mail!” Uncle Vernon grunted, scooping up the stack.
Gas bill. Postcard. Advert.
Harry slunk out of the kitchen, keeping silent and close to the wall.
A thick, parchment envelope slid free, creamy and heavy with wax.
Vernon froze.
It came with the morning post.
A thick envelope, cream colored, heavy, with crimson ink across the front:
> Mr. Harry J. Potter
Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Harry stared at it, something twisting in his chest — a small, impossible hope.
Vernon went purple.
“You been talking to people!? How do they know where you sleep?!”
“I—I don’t know,” Harry said, voice shaking.
Uncle Vernon ripped it in half before Harry could blink. His mustache bristled in fear more than anger.
“You freak, always causing problems for us normal sort!"
He grabbed ahold of Harry's collar, shoving him into the dark crept he called a bedroom.
He locked the cupboard door.
More letters came.
Through the mail slot.
Under the door.
Through the windows.
Petunia shrieked. Dudley hid under the table. Vernon swore loudly enough the neighbor’s curtains twitched.
But Harry — Harry felt something he’d never felt before.
Wanted.
Someone out there wanted him.
Vernon’s panic grew wild. Boarded windows. Hammered nails. Sweaty curses.
___
Soon enough, they fled.
Storm winds battered the car as they crossed pitch-black waves on a ferry. Dudley whined. Petunia fretted.
The hut on the rock loomed in the dark: cracked wood, salt-stained windows, howling wind.
Inside was colder than the storm.
Harry curled on the hard floor by the dying fire, pulling his oversized coat tighter.
He reached into his pocket.
One surviving soldier tumbled into his hand — scuffed plastic, chipped paint.
The only toy he had left.
Two had been left behind, casualties of war.
He placed it gently at his side like a silent guard.
A ritual he’d never put into words: You protect me. I’ll protect you.
Midnight crept closer, second by second.
Harry’s pulse thrummed.
Tick.
Perhaps the letter was a mistake. Perhaps magic wasn’t real.
Tick.
He hugged his knees, toy soldier looking on unblinking, like a brave little knight.
Tick…
The clock struck—
CRASH.
The door smashed inward off its hinges, slammed by a force far greater than wind. Dudley shrieked, scrambling behind his mother. Vernon leapt up, brandishing a broken rifle like a club.
Cold sea air flooded the hut.
A tall figure stepped through the doorway, black cloak snapping like a banner in the storm.
Glossy hair. Crooked nose. Jet-dark eyes narrowed in annoyance.
It was Professor Severus Snape.
He surveyed the scene as if deeply offended by the very air.
“Good evening,” he drawled, voice low and dangerous.
“I see the years have not improved your hospitality, Petunia.”
Petunia gasped, paling. She clutched Dudley behind her like a shield.
“You,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
Snape ignored her, boots echoing on warped floorboards. His eyes landed on Vernon—red-faced, spluttering, shaking his rifle.
“Put that ridiculous contraption down before you hurt yourself,” Snape said, flicking his wand.
The rifle bent into a knot, dropping uselessly to the floor. Vernon yelped.
But Snape had already moved on.
His gaze found Harry.
For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression.
Green eyes. A sharp breath.
Lily’s eyes.
Just as quickly, the softness iced over.
“Harry Potter,” he said coldly. “I presume?”
Harry stood slowly. “Er—yes, sir?”
Snape’s lip curled faintly. It wasn’t quite disgust — more… annoyance. Inconvenience. “We are already behind schedule,” he snapped, turning sharply on his heel. His cloak flared like a storm cloud. “I will not allow your laziness to make me late for my own appointments.”
Harry blinked, startled. “Um I'm—?”
Snape cut him a sharp look. “Do not whine. It is unseemly.”
Harry’s mouth clicked shut. He hadn’t meant to whine. He hadn’t meant to sound like anything at all. He tucked his chin down, shoulders curling. He pressed his soldier deep into the pocket of his oversized pants.
Snape strode across the hut in long, impatient steps, wand flicking once toward Petunia. Brushing passed her so suddenly that it made her shriek and stumble back. “You were instructed to be ready at 9 sharp!” His voice was sharp and dangerous. “I will not allow your childish behavior to interfere with my personal time.”
Petunia swallowed, throat bobbing. Vernon sputtered behind her, red-faced and useless.
"We leave now." Snape hisses as he takes ahold of Harry's arm, right atop the clothed bruise his uncle had left the day before. "Hold still." Were the last words spoken before the world went white and Harry stomach turned with a vengeance.
The world snapped back into place with a violent CRACK.
Harry gasped, dropping to one knee on cobblestone. The ground was solid and real and not moving—but his stomach rebelled anyway. He pressed a hand to it, swallowing hard.
Cold morning fog curled along the alley like pale fingers, and lanterns flickered overhead, casting golden halos through the haze.
Wherever they were, it was nothing like he'd ever seen.
Snape stood above him, the look of irritationon his face unchanged.
“Do get up, Potter. Side-along Apparition is hardly debilitating.”
Harry tried not to wheeze. “S–side along what?”
Snape exhaled through his nose—the sigh of a man regretting every life choice leading to this moment.
“Apparition. A method of magical travel. Highly regulated. Highly restricted. Reserved for adult witches and wizards. Meaning,” he added pointedly, “you will not be attempting it on your own for a very long time.”
Harry nodded quickly, scrambling upright.
His arm throbbed from Snape’s grip—where the bruise lay—but Snape had already released him, either unaware or uncaring of the flinch it caused. The shadows clung to his robes like loyal pets.
He pulled a wand from his sleeve—smooth, ebony-dark—and tapped a brick on a narrow wall.
Harry was about to ask what he was doing when—
Click. Grind. Slide.
Bricks folded back like a blooming stone flower, revealing a brilliant, bustling street.
Gas lamps shimmered over crooked shops and colorful stalls. Cats wove between boots. Owls hooted from cages stacked in windows. The air smelled like parchment, cinnamon, and something electric.
Harry’s breath caught.
“Welcome,” Snape said dryly the barest roll of the eyes, “to Diagon Alley.”
Harry stepped through the archway like he was entering a dream.
Witches in plum hats bargained over cauldrons that stirred themselves. Goblins with sharp suits carried bundles of scrolls. A group of prospective students—robes crisp and new—rushed past talking excitedly about broom models.
Snape’s voice cut through the wonder.
“Stay at my side, do not wander, and do not speak unless spoken to. The world needs no more foolishness today.”
Harry nodded obediently, but his eyes were everywhere.
Snape set a brisk pace, robes snapping. He cleared a path simply by existing—people moved around him like tides around a rock.
Their first stop was a gleaming marble building: tall pillars, intricate carvings, and doors so polished Harry saw his reflection warping in the gold.
The sign read:
GRINGOTTS Wizarding Bank
Two goblins guarded the entrance, spears crossed. Their eyes gleamed like coins.
Harry paused, startled by their sharp features.
“Do not stare,” Snape murmured beneath his breath. “It is rude, and despite what you have probably been told, you are not above the rules of decorum.”
Inside, the hall glittered with chandeliers. Goblins perched at tall counters, writing so fast Harry’s eyes crossed trying to follow.
Snape approached one.
“Withdrawals from vault seven hundred and twelve,” he said smoothly, “and vault six-eight-seven.”
The goblin blinked slowly.
“Keys?”
The goblin’s voice was as cool and sharp as cut glass.
Snape reached into a hidden fold of his robes and produced two keys. One was small and brass—Harry’s. The other was longer, rune-etched, heavier with age. The goblin’s eyebrows twitched upward almost imperceptibly at the second key before he nodded.
“Very well. Griphook will take you.”
A smaller goblin—lean, sharp-eyed—appeared as if summoned by thought alone. He bowed stiffly.
“This way.”
Harry followed, staying close to Snape’s billowing robes as they crossed the polished floor toward a set of iron gates. Cool, subterranean air drifted up from below.
Griphook ushered them into a mine cart—little more than a bench bolted onto wheels—and Harry barely had time to sit before—
WHOOSH!
The cart plunged downward, wind tearing at his hair. He yelped, clutching the rails. The tracks twisted like a spiraling dragon, banking hard enough that Harry felt momentarily weightless.
Beside him, Snape sat completely still.
“I—I think I’m gonna be sick—!” Harry squeaked.
“Kindly refrain,” Snape replied, not even blinking. “I have had enough of childish nonsense for one evening.”
The cart lurched to a stop near a round door set into stone: Vault 687.
Snape stepped forward, handed over the long key, and stood back with a curt nod. Griphook touched the lock. The door groaned open, revealing neat stacks of gold, silver, and bronze.
Harry’s eyes widened. He’d never seen more than a handful of coins in his life.
“These are Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, respectively,” Snape said briskly. “Seven Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. As I'm sure you've been busy having everything handed to you, you will need to learn the exchange rates before you embarrass yourself at a till. We will take enough for your school supplies and not a cent more.”
His voice snapped like a ledger closing. He stepped forward with long, practiced strides and began counting — precise, exacting — stacking coins into a small leather pouch. Galleons chimed softly against one another, like locked windows in rain.
“That should suffice,” Snape declared, drawstring tightening with a practiced tug. He turned sharply, black robes swirling as he began to leave the vault.
Harry stayed very still.
His heart was loud in his ears — louder than the echo of the vault door, louder than Snape’s footsteps fading toward the cart.
He looked at the pile — towers of gold that might as well have been mountains, compared to the nothing he’d ever had. Dudley’s old broken soldiers that rested in his pockets. His old shirts that swallowed him whole. Cold nights under a stair.
His fingers twitched.
Maybe he could buy… he wasn’t sure. Something for himself. Something truly his.
Something that wasn’t survival.
He wasn’t stealing. Not really. The vault was his. They’d said so.
Harry swallowed hard and turned back, scooping fistfuls of coin into his oversized pockets — more careful than greedy, counting silently in his head until it felt like enough to last. Not so much the piles would look different.
When he looked up, Griphook was watching.
Not angry. Not surprised.
The goblin’s mouth curled — the smallest sliver of respect.
Harry froze.
Griphook only tapped the side of his nose with one long finger and turned away, eyes glittering.
“Come,” he rasped. “We must not keep your… escort waiting.”
Harry hurried after him.
___
They didn’t linger at the second vault.
Griphook guided the cart deeper, the tracks hissing through cold stone halls and past underground waterfalls that glittered like falling stars. Vault 713 — a strange door with no handle, sealed like a secret.
Snape collected a brown wrapped package with an oddly careful hands and tucked it into the inner pocket of his robes. The vault slammed shut behind them like the lid of a coffin.
Harry blinked. “…What’s in it?”
Snape’s stare was cold iron.
“Certainly nothing that concerns you.”
And that was that.
___
The cart ride back was no less terrifying, but Harry managed not to scream this time — even when they corkscrewed around a pillar of rock. His stomach sloshed unhappily, but pride kept him silent.
Gringotts’ marble warmth was a shock after the chill beneath. Harry stepped into the hallway, blinking as chandeliers stabbed at his eyes.
For the first time, he noticed the whisper.
It rippled through the crowd like wind over wheat.
“…Potter—” “—looks just like Lily—” “—thought he’d be taller—” “—The Boy Who Lived—”
Harry stiffened. The words prickled his spine.
Faces turned. Heads craned. Mouths parted in awe or hungry curiosity.
Harry’s pulse stumbled.
Snape’s voice slashed the air.
“Eyes forward, Potter.”
His robe snapped as he strode for the doors, and Harry had to jog to catch up.
They stepped into Diagon Alley proper, weaving through shoppers. The whispers followed like gnats.
“Is that really—?” “—scar?” “Merlin’s beard…”
Harry hunched a little, wishing he could fold inward.
Snape’s irritation crackled like static.
“If these people spent half as much time on self-improvement as they do gossip,” he hissed, “the world might actually improve.”
Someone gasped, breathless: “Professor Snape! You’re with—!”
Snape’s glare was a guillotine.
The crowd scattered.
Harry’s lungs loosened, fractionally.
___
Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was quieter, the air smelling faintly of lavender and mothballs. Velvet curtains framed fitting stands where other students fidgeted under measuring tapes.
Madam Malkin herself bustled forward, cheeks rosy, pin pulled from between her teeth and stuck into a nearby mannequin.
“Hogwarts, dear?” she asked, eyes warm.
Harry nodded, and she ushered him up onto a stool with gentle hands.
“Arms out, sweetie.”
He complied. The oversized coat slid from his shoulders.
Gasps weren’t uncommon for Madam Malkin — robes did strange things to proportions. But she blinked, just once, eyes lingering on his arms.
Finger-shaped bruises. Old and new. Yellow blooms beneath purple clouds.
Her smile pinched. Almost imperceptibly.
She didn’t comment.
But Snape saw.
He’d been standing behind Harry, half-bored posture and crossed arms designed to discourage conversation. The moment the coat fell, his attention snapped like a trap.
Black eyes scanned the mottled skin with surgical precision. His expression didn’t change, but something in his jaw tightened. A small muscle jumped.
One second. Two.
Then — his face locked itself back into neutrality, mask snapping into place.
“Do not slouch,” he said, voice almost too even. “She cannot take proper measurements if you insist on wriggling like an overcaffeinated pixie.”
Harry flushed and straightened. “Sorry, sir.”
Madam Malkin worked quickly. The measuring tape zipped, wrapped, and coiled like a living thing. Madam Malkin hummed softly, stepping back with a squint.
“Well now… arms up again? Mm. And hold your breath—just a tick.”
Harry did. The tape circled his ribs.
Madam Malkin’s brows pinched.
She fumbled slightly, clicked her tongue, and wrote something on her notepad.
“…you’re smaller than you should be, dear.”
Harry went still.
“I’m— I’ll grow,” he said quickly.
“I’m sure you will.” Her voice was gentle, but her eyes flicked to his collarbones, sharp like bird wings under skin. “We’ll… afix your first robes with expanding charms, for the future.”
Harry nodded mutely.
She bent, measuring inseams, ankles. Her hand wrapped loosely around his wrist to position him—
—it closed all the way with room to spare.
Madam Malkin’s lips thinned. “Gracious.”
Harry’s cheeks warmed. He tried not to shrink.
Snape watched from the corner, stony as a gargoyle, arms crossed tight. To most, he appeared disinterested… but his stare never drifted far from Harry’s form.
Madam Malkin stepped back with a soft sigh.
“We’ll see you right as rain. Don’t you fret.”
Harry breathed out.
She bustled away to fetch threads. Snape turned and wandered toward a rack of pre-embroidered house patches, pretending to browse — though his expression soured at every golden Gryffindor lion he passed.
Harry swallowed.
This was his chance.
He slid a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing cold metal — the coins he’d taken. Hope bubbled in his chest.
He crept to the counter.
“M–Ma’am? Could I… um… buy some spare clothes? Casual ones? Muggle ones maybe? And—shoes? If you have any?”
He set the coins down: a small, nervous pile of Galleons, Sickles, Knuts.
His voice was tiny. “Just… clothes that fit.”
Madam Malkin blinked — startled. But she softened.
“Oh, dear heart… yes, of course we can arrange—”
A shadow fell.
Cold and tall.
Snape’s hand slammed down on the counter like a thunderclap.
Harry flinched.
Coins scattered across the counter.
“What,” Snape hissed, each letter sharp enough to bleed, “do you think you are doing?”
Harry’s throat closed. “I— I just—”
Snape seized Harry’s wrist, pale skin covering the muddled mess of purple, blue, and yellow.
“Stealing now are we?” he spat. “How predictable.”
Harry’s breath hitched. “It— it’s my money, sir, I—”
“Oh yes, I’m sure. You believe the world owes you a new wardrobe because you are the Boy Who Lived?” Snape sneered, voice rising. “Already spoiled. Already arrogant. Just like your father.”
Harry froze.
Madam Malkin paled.
Snape’s voice sharpened, low and poisonous.
“James Potter swaggered around believing he deserved everything handed to him on a silver platter. It seems the apple hasn’t rotted far from the tree.”
Harry’s chest caved inward.
“I didn’t— I don’t— I just wanted—”
“What you want,” Snape snapped, snatching the coins, “is irrelevant. The world does not revolve around your whims. You take what you are given and be grateful.”
Harry shook his head frantically.
“It’s not— I wasn’t— I’m sorry— please— I’m sorry—” words tumbled over themselves, dissolving into hiccups. “I’m not— I just— I don’t— I don’t have clothes— they’re— too big— they stink— I’m sorry— I—”
His voice cracked.
His lip trembled.
Snape opened his mouth— likely to continue—
—but Harry broke.
It hit like a dam shattering: a full-body sob that tore from somewhere deep and terrified. Tears streamed hot and sudden down his face. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, shoulders shaking. Ugly sounds escaped — choked, gasping, raw.
People turned. Stared.
Madam Malkin rushed forward. “Oh— sweetheart—”
Snape froze.
His wand hand twitched.
His eyes widened, just a fraction, as if no one had ever reacted to him like this.
Harry covered his head with his arms, curling small, voice breaking:
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t be mad— I didn’t mean— I thought— just clothes— I’m not greedy I promise— I’m sorry— please—”
Tears soaked into the plush floor below him. He hiccupped on a sob, whole body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
Madam Malkin glared at Snape — fiercely maternal.
“Severus Snape,” she hissed under her breath, “what on EARTH—”
Snape stood rigid. Pale.
Something flickered in his mind. A small blacked haird boy, forgotten in his own home. Never enough, never... right.
He knelt slowly. Awkwardly. As if approaching a wounded creature.
“Potter,” he said, quieter. Not soft. But not sharp. “Stop.”
Harry sobbed harder.
Snape’s jaw clenched.
He reached — hesitated — then rested a stiff, gloved hand between Harry’s shoulder blades. A single point of contact.
Not comforting.
Just… anchoring.
“Calm yourself,” he murmured — rough, unused to kindness. “I am not—” his voice caught, “—going to strike you.”
Harry’s sobbing stuttered. His breathing hitched.
Snape’s hand stayed, steady.
“You should have simply asked,” he said, quieter still. “We will… acquire what you require.”
Madam Malkin’s expression softened minutely. She straightened.
“I’ll prepare a proper wardrobe bundle,” she said gently. “Winter coat, Muggle trousers, sensible shoes, underthings, socks. No charge.”
Harry blinked through tears. “N-no charge?”
“Teacher’s discount,” she said firmly, eyes daring Snape to argue.
Snape swallowed.
He nodded once. Tiny. Stiff.
Harry wiped his face with the heel of his palm, still hiccupping.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
Snape looked away — expression tight, something ugly twisting across features that were suddenly, painfully human.
“…Stop apologizing,” he muttered.
Harry sniffed.
Madam Malkin guided him gently back to the stool, whispering calm things while she pinned fabric and fetched pre-fit garments.
Snape stood nearby — silent and unmoving — but his posture had changed.
Subtly angled between Harry
and every watching eye.
Guarding.
Even if he’d rather hex himself than admit it.
Madam Malkin worked quickly to fix him with a new attire to walk out in.
___
She finalized everything while leveling Snape with a look that said 'You’d better take care of this one, Severus Snape, or I’ll hex you bald.'
"Your full wardrobe will be delivered to hogwarts for you sweetheart, it will be right there waiting for you." Harry nodded up at her, tears still clinging to his eyelashes.
She handed over one of Harry's new school rode sets to Snape. Who promptly shrunk and placed the garments in his pocket.
Snape inclined his head stiffly. It might have passed for gratitude.
“Come along, Potter,” he murmured.
Harry looked once more at his new clothing in the mirror, running a hand over his right pocket, where his tiny protector rested soundly. Shame clung to him like a second shirt, heavy and itchy. He kept his head down as they stepped back into the bustling crowd.
For several long steps, neither spoke.
Then Snape did something… unexpected.
He veered left. Away from the bookshops. Away from cauldrons.
Toward a striped awning with little floating spoons circling lazily above the sign:
Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour
Harry blinked. “Sir?”
“Do not question me,” Snape snapped automatically.
But there was no heat behind it.
Inside, the air smelled like sugar and cold fruit and warm waffle cones. Families chattered. Children laughed. A witch in lime-green robes debated toppings with an exhausted employee.
Snape marched to the counter like a man facing execution.
“One single scoop vanilla,” he said crisply, glancing down sideways at Harry, “with… sprinkles.”
Harry startled. “I didn’t— you don’t have to—”
Snape raised a silencing finger.
“And one lemon sorbet.”
Florean Fortescue beamed as if witnessing the discovery of kindness itself. “Expanding your palate, Professor Snape?”
Snape’s glare could have curdled milk. “Merely… nutritional morale for a student. Nothing more.”
“…Right, then,” Fortescue said cheerfully, and hurried to scoop.
Harry followed Snape to a small booth near the window. The professor settled stiffly, placing his black gloves on the table like shields.
Harry slid in across from him.
The bowls arrived moments later—one pale yellow mound with a twist of lemon peel, the other a soft scoop of vanilla drowned in rainbow sprinkles.
Harry stared.
“…You may eat,” Snape said, sounding vaguely irritated. “No use wasting perfectly good ice cream.”
Harry picked up his spoon. His hands trembled.
The first bite almost brought new tears to his eyes.
Then his eyes widened—wonder, disbelief. “It’s… it’s really good.”
Snape huffed. “It is ice cream, Potter. Its sole purpose is to be good.”
Harry took another, then whispered without thinking:
“This is my first time having it.”
Snape froze.
Utterly.
A bead of lemon sorbet slid down the side of his spoon and dripped back into the bowl, unnoticed.
“…Your first?” he managed, voice roughened at the edges.
Harry blinked, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Um… y-yes. Dudley always got sweets. I wasn’t allowed. They said sugar would've made me bad.”
Snape stared at him.
Thousands of memories flickered — even with his home difficulties, had still been squirreled away treats as a child. Cakes on birthdays, sweets after dinner, Honeydukes displays at twelve, Christmas puddings at the Hogwarts feast, Lily laughing with chocolate on her fingertips. Childhood sweetness. Innocence.
Things Harry had been denied.
His voice came out quieter than intended.
“Absurd.”
Harry tensed, thinking he’d said the wrong thing.
Snape exhaled through his nose, long and slow — to buy control.
“…Ice cream,” he muttered, picking up his spoon, “is hardly a corrupting influence.”
Harry’s shoulders uncurled. He dared another bite. Cold. Sweet. Safe.
Snape watched the boy’s eyes flutter closed in contentment — like someone discovering joy for the first time.
His chest constricted.
He pretended to study a fleck of dust on the table.
What else has he never had? Whispered a voice he did not care for.
He ate silently, but the sorbet tasted faintly of ash.
—
When both bowls were mostly empty, Snape cleared his throat.
“We have more errands. First stop, the potions shop. Come.”
Outside, Diagon Alley bustled louder now — hawkers shouting, owls hooting, charmed quills scribbling advertisements in midair. Harry trailed behind like a shadow.
Snape slowed his pace by a fraction — so subtle no one would notice, but Harry didn’t have to jog.
They stepped into Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, cool and dim, jars glowing softly with pickled plant matter and glittering powders.
The familiar scent of alchemical ingredients steadied Snape. Order. Precision. Logic.
He put in the ordering for his usual store top ups, as well as a complete student kit, to be delivered alongside it.
Harry drifted to the shelves, reading labels like prayers.
Harry pointed toward a jar of shimmering black beetles.
“What’s that?”
“Boomslang beetles,” Snape replied smoothly. “Do not touch. One bite and you’ll spend a week unable to move your limbs.”
Harry yanked his hand back.
“And that one?” Harry pointed to a beautifully glowing purple flower nestled in snow.
“Deadly nightshade. Particularly lethal. Infants tremble before it.”
Harry tucked his hands behind his back.
Snape actually smirked.
“Good decision.”
He tok another glance around.
“Powdered moonstone… sliced— what’s that word—?”
“Bezoar,” Snape supplied automatically, not looking up. “From a goat’s stomach. Antidotes. You will not need one if you refrain from recklessness.”
Harry smiled shyly. “I’ll try.”
Snape’s mouth twitched. Might’ve been approval. Hard to say.
The clerk slid an order sheet across the counter before turning to get started packageing supplies. Snape stiffled a groan at the paperwork, but signed all the usual boxes with a flurrish.
He leaned sideways toward Harry afterwards, voice low.
“Hold out your arms.”
Harry blinked, startled. “Sir?”
Snape’s gaze flicked meaningfully to the bruises peeking beneath his sleeve.
Harry’s breath hitched. He hesitated.
“…They don’t hurt much anymore.”
“That,” Snape murmured, “was decidedly not a question.”
Slowly — timidly — Harry rolled his sleeves to the elbow.
Under the apothecary’s soft green light, the bruises were even more ghastly. Pale skin marred by fingerprints and shadows.
Snape’s face went blank.
Emotionless.
Too neutral.
He reached into his inner pocket — not the one holding the mysterious parcel — and withdrew a small tin, round and dented from years of travel.
The lid clicked softly open, revealing iridescent balm that smelled faintly of pine and something colder.
“Essence of bruise-healing comfrey, or more commonly know as bruise balm,” Snape said lightly, as if this were routine. “Infused with a pain-numbing draught.”
He extended it.
Harry stared. “You… want me to…?”
A pause.
Snape’s voice softened imperceptibly.
“I can apply it. If you prefer.”
Harry’s eyes widened in a way that made Snape want to hex something.
“…Is it allowed?”
Snape’s hand tightened minutely on the tin.
“Yes,” he said. “Healing is always allowed.”
Harry nodded. Very small. Trust blooming awkwardly, fragile as a new sprout.
Snape gestured. “Sit.”
Harry perched on a narrow bench beside a shelf of dried newt eggs.
“Hold still.”
Snape scooped a fingertip of balm — practiced, careful. He touched it to the darkest bruise, spreading it in small circles.
Harry flinched.
Snape froze, tone instantly clinical. “Pain?”
“N-no,” Harry whispered. “Just… cold.”
“Hmm.” Snape resumed, pressure feather-light.
The purple blotches softened, fading to yellow then nothing. Beneath his precise fingers, skin warmed. Harry’s breath trembled.
He'd never had such a gentle touch befall his skin.
"This is a very common remedy in the wizarding world,” Snape murmured, working the balm into each bruise. “It accelerates healing. Prevents scarring. You never should've gone without.”
Harry swallowed. “Thank you.”
Snape grunted — meaning you’re welcome.
He finished the last bruise, lingering half a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he capped the tin and pressed it into Harry’s palm.
“Keep it.”
Harry stared at it like treasure. “Are you sure?”
“I stockpile,” Snape lied brusquely. “One missing tin will not implode the foundations of Hogwarts.”
Harry smiled weakly. “…Right.”
Snape stood, smoothing his gloves.
“Come along,” he said. “Wand next.”
Harry scrambled up. “Yes, sir.”
They stepped back into sunlight.
The crowd swirled.
But Harry walked closer now.
Not touching.
Just… near.
Snape didn’t move away.
—
As they walked down the street, Snape spoke without turning.
“Potter.”
Harry blinked. “Sir?”
“Should anyone,” Snape said, voice low as a curse, “lay hands on you again… you will inform me.”
Harry’s step faltered.
“…But Aunt Petunia said—”
“I do not care,” Snape snapped, soft fury burning beneath.
Silence.
Harry’s throat bobbed.
“…Okay,” he whispered.
Snape’s jaw eased. Barely.
“Good.”
Harry exhaled — deep, steadying.
___
The walk to Ollivander’s was short, but the atmosphere was… different than before.
Harry’s shoulders weren’t hunched quite as tightly. The cold ache in his limbs had faded to a soft thrum beneath the bruise balm. And for the first time—maybe ever—someone walked beside him, not behind or dragging him.
Snape’s robes flicked sharply with every turn, but Harry noticed something:
He was cutting through the crowd like a prowling wolf, placing himself between Harry and anyone who leaned too close, who stared too hungrily, whose whisper lasted a second too long.
Once, a witch leaned in, breathless—
“Oh, is that him? May I just—”
Snape’s hand shot out like a striking adder, blocking her before she got within arm’s reach.
“That child,” Snape hissed, “is not a tourist attraction.”
She recoiled as if slapped.
Harry blinked up at him. “…Thank you.”
“I did not do it for gratitude,” Snape muttered. “It was simply… necessary.”
But Harry saw his jaw tighten, his eyes flick to Harry's newly bare wrists, and he understood.
The bell above Ollivander’s chimed when they entered.
Dust motes danced in the dim shop, piled high with boxes, like a forest of sleeping wands.
A voice floated out of the shadows.
“Ahh… I wondered when I’d be seeing you, Mr. Potter…”
Mr. Ollivander glided into view, pale-eyed, as if he could see straight through skin and bone and into secrets.
Harry swallowed.
Snape stepped half a pace forward, robes settling like a dark shield.
“Keep your theatrics to a minimum, Ollivander,” he said coolly.
“Ah, Severus,” Ollivander murmured with a thin smile. “Protective, are we?”
Snape’s eyes flashed. “Mind your business and fetch the boy a wand.”
Ollivander bowed slightly, amused.
Boxes slid from shelves at a snap of his fingers, and then began the ritual of try, flick, reject— sparks, gusts of wind, one near explosion.
Harry’s palms had started to sweat.
Snape stood stiff by the counter, hands folded behind his back, but his eyes tracked every wand tip, prepared to intercept danger before Harry even realized it existed.
Then—
A box.
A warm brown wand nestled inside.
Harry touched it.
Warmth bloomed up his arm, soft as breath against his palm.
He lifted it, uncertain, and flicked.
Golden fire spiraled into the air, curling into the shape of wings— a phoenix’s cry echoing faintly, before dissolving like dawn mist.
Ollivander sucked in a breath.
“Curious… very curious…”
Snape’s glare sharpened. “Do not start.”
Ollivander only smiled softly at Harry. “A wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter.”
Harry glanced down at the holly wood cradled in his hand— and smiled, small but real.
Before Harry could reach for his pouch, Snape slid several Galleons onto the counter. Effortless. Automatic.
Harry blinked. “Sir— I can pay—”
“You will purchase your textbooks,” Snape said curtly. “Wands are the responsibility of the school’s sponsor. It is tradition.”
…Harry suspected that wasn’t actually a rule. But he didn’t argue.
He hugged the wand box to his chest, and as they stepped back out into the sunlight, he heard a voice call out.
"You may do great things Mister Potter, 'he' certainly did, awful things, but great."
Harry feels a shiver run down his spine.
___
Flourish & Blotts
The smell of parchment and ink wrapped around them like a cloak. Tall shelves towered above rows of tables, students chattering eagerly about potion brews and magical creatures.
Harry drifted toward a display— a shiny stack of cauldron-care manuals, their pages smelling like warmth and glue.
Snape’s voice cut through the air before he could pick one up.
“No. That edition’s instructions are outdated and inaccurate. The publisher hasn’t corrected their dangerous misprint regarding silver sprigs.”
Harry blinked. “…Dangerous?”
“Explosively so,” Snape said, tone dry. “You would lose your eyebrows.”
He plucked the proper edition from a higher shelf and dropped it gently into Harry’s basket.
Harry followed him like a small, curious duck, observing how Snape scanned lists, checked spines for structural flaws, muttered darkly about certain authors.
When Harry reached toward an extra book— Herbology At Home, A Beginners Guide — a large hand descended over the cover.
Snape’s eyebrow arched.
“Are you looking for extra reading material?”
Harry’s ears burned. “I—just thought I could… learn more.”
Snape hesitated.
Then, quietly—
“…Put it in the basket.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Snape’s voice was gruff. “Books are never wasted money.”
Harry smiled. The basket began to fill.
When he strained to lift it, a hand swooped beneath the handle, taking the weight effortlessly.
Harry startled. “I can carry—”
“You will drop it and damage the spines,” Snape said flatly.
But his expression softened almost immediately, like he regretted the sharp edge.
At the counter, the total was announced. Harry reached for his own pouch—
Snape’s voice cut through the air:
“Put it away, Potter.”
Harry froze. “…Sir?”
Snape exhaled sharply, as if the words were heavy.
“Consider it an investment… in your education.”
Harry swallowed past a sudden lump.
No one had ever invested in him before.
Outside the shop, sunlight caught on Snape’s black hair, turning the edges amber for a heartbeat.
Harry hugged his new books to his chest.
“Sir?” he asked softly. “…Why are you helping me?”
Snape stopped walking.
Stood very still.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. Careful.
“No child should be sent into the world… ill-prepared.”
Harry’s chest tightened. Warmth bloomed where fear had once lived.
“And,” Snape added, tone shifting gruff as armor snapped back into place, “I refuse to be responsible for a student who blows himself up in Potions.”
Harry laughed—short, startled.
Snape blinked.
“…Was that a laugh?”
Harry flushed. “Sorry— I—”
“Do not apologize,” Snape interrupted immediately. The words escaped faster than he meant.
Harry looked down at his shoes so Snape wouldn’t see him smile.